How Kenobi Got His Groove Back
by alchemy dream
Summary: All it took was a lighthearted quip from Mace Windu to send ObiWan Kenobi off the edge and into insecurity, but Anakin has found the cure to growing older. AniObi slash.
1. Unrequited Lust

**How Kenobi Got His Groove Back:Alchemy Dream**

**A/N: **Another birthday-oriented fic, heh. I hope you enjoy! Remember, reviews are love!

**Summary:** All it took was a light-hearted quip from Mace Windu to send Obi-Wan Kenobi off the edge and into insecurity. Anakin is fed up with his ex-master's age-related blubbering and is determined to show him exactly _how_ beautiful he is.

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Obi-Wan Kenobi is thirty five years, three-hundred and sixty days, and twelve hours old when Mace Windu shatters his every ounce of confidence.

"Obi-Wan, is that a bald spot?" Windu asks as he sits across from his friend on the round, white cushions in the meditation chamber. Obi-Wan's greenish-grey eyes open suddenly, wondering why Mace Windu is meditating on the back of his head. I mean, can he even _see_ his head from that point of the room? A warm sunset crawls into the white chamber through dirty glass and still curtains. The pinkish light touches the imperfect, bare orb of Mace's scalp, and a second question emerges. He reaches worriedly to rub his hand through his coiffed coppery hair, searching indignantly for any thinning spots.

"Right there, on the crown." Mace gets up, amused, and rubs a spot near the top of his skull with a jabbing finger. Obi-Wan moves his hand up to trace the area where Mace's finger lingers. He furrows his brows and adjusts his hair to cover what may or may not be a thinning spot. Mace chuckles a bit and resumes his spot in the center of the cushion, folding his legs together and closing his eyes.

"You're insane, Mace. It's fine. If you'd spend more time meditating on more pressing agendas, perhaps the council would be more apt to send you on an actual mission, rather than warm the bench in the council room," Obi-Wan says, sounding more petulant than he intended. Mace simply chuckles again, sending Obi-Wan further into mental disarray.

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"Mas...Obi-Wan?"

Anakin props himself up against the door frame nearest the wash room, watching the older man. Obi-Wan is standing, his back to the mirror, a hand mirror held in front of him allowing him to see the back of his head. He looks despairingly at the barely semi-transparent speck on the top of his scalp, running his tanned fingers through the locks. He sighs again, as he has been doing ever since he noticed his friend watching him.

"I thought you told me that it wasn't very becoming of a Jedi to take too much pride in his appearance," Anakin says, amused at Obi-Wan's sudden interest in his hair. Obi-Wan harrumphs and clinks the metal rimmed hand mirror down on the marble counter. Giving Anakin a look, he slides past him into the common room, and tends to the boiling water that he left. He takes the steel kettle off the stove and puts a pink tinged tea bag leaving it to steep. Immediately, the cold quarters spring to life, as the smell of exotic strains of flowers and spices flood the air. Obi-Wan has an expensive taste in fine teas, most of them imported from Naboo, where one could find such fine flowers such as medeis and aievir blossoms. He enjoys the sweet, almost chocolatey taste, combined with andris spice and sandalwood essence, giving it a decidedly masculine smell that is truly intoxicating. Obi-Wan fidgets in the cupboard for a moment, before pulling down two orange porcelain cups, and, after bending forward over the stove to inhale the steam, pours a steaming fragrant cup of tea for Anakin and himself. He hands the cup to Anakin wordlessly, and moves to recline slightly against the somewhat stiff couch. Anakin sits on a removed cushion across from the small table that separates them and sips his tea, holding the cup with both hands, absorbing the heat.

"I wish they had left us that other couch. It had endured ten years worth of abuse, and was just getting rather comfy."

"Well, you know, all of the Jedi quarters have to match. And while we're complaining, it's freezing in this place. You would think that with the massive amounts of technology we have here that we could adjust the climate, to at least tolerable," Anakin says, fighting a shiver.

"I would imagine that by now, you would be used to Coruscanti climate. It's always cold," Obi-Wan says, staring out the balcony. Anakin follows his gaze out to the skyline, the trillions of kilos of steel and glass that define Coruscant. A deep burgundy haze nestles in between the towers and the blackness of night. He looks back to the one he still calls Master.

Obi-Wan has been distant as of late. More than usual. As in, not speaking at all. Anakin wonders if it has anything to do with the fact that Obi-Wan will be turning another year older soon, but quickly dismisses it. He had never seemed tense or upset when he turned thirty-three, or thirty-four, or thirty-five. Certainly thirty-six would be no different. He would go out for a tame drink with Anakin and Master Windu at a tame bar, come home in time for his bed time at eleven o'clock, and wake up the next day as if nothing were different. But still, he searches the quiet man's features for any hints to his mood, hoping to find some kind of askew clue between the wrinkles on his brow, the softness of his lips, or a glimmer in his normally readable eyes.

"What are you staring at, Anakin?" Obi-Wan half-snaps. Anakin shakes his head lightly, and smiles slightly.

"I think it's obvious, Obi-Wan." Obi-Wan looks thoughtful for a moment, and then speaks again.

"You see it too, don't you."

"See what?"

Obi-Wan sighs, exasperated, and scratches his messy beard.

"The bald spot, Anakin! The bald spot on the back of my..." Obi-Wan turns and jerkily tries to show Anakin the spot with the thinning hair. Anakin squints, pursing his lips and shaking his head. Obi-Wan's hair looks just as thick and full as always. It just needs a good washing.

"No, it looks fine."

Obi-Wan feels angry and frustrated.

"You're lying," he says indignantly, searching Anakin's face for signs of deceit. Anakin looks surprised. The older man is obviously unsettled by the idea of male-pattern baldness all of a sudden, so much so that he has become notably paranoid.

"No, I'm not! It looks fine. Why are you worried?"

Obi-Wan sips his tea, his brow wrinkled again.

"Mace saw a bald spot. I don't know why you can't see it."

Anakin laughs loudly. He considers briefly entertaining this situation, but decides against encouraging Obi-Wan's paranoia.

"Mast...Obi-Wan! Have you _noticed_ Master Windu lately? Or ever? Who is he to tell someone they are bald? He probably thinks that _I'm_ going bald." Obi-Wan doesn't crack a smile. He smacks his lips a little, savouring the taste of the tea.

"I look old."

Anakin snorts, gulping his now cool enough tea. He swallows audibly, and stares at the man in front of him. Granted the beard doesn't help very much, Obi-Wan doesn't look old, just a little tired. He can still detect a blush of youth in his cheeks through the stray whiskers, the smooth skin looking like the kind of skin one would want to taste. It looks warm and soft, the medium tan giving it some masculinity. Obi-Wan has been blessed with full, red lips that entertain Anakin in his fantasies at night. Obi-Wan still has an amazing body, as far as Anakin can tell in the few glimpses he gets of his bare skin. He has big, strong hands that Anakin knows will keep him safe in every way except the ways that he wants them to. Anakin waits for those moments when some obscure statement of his will tickle Obi-Wan's heart and cause his face to contort into a wide smile, and the thin wrinkles around his eyes to fold, and the discreet dimples on his cheeks to come into sight.

Anakin doesn't know quite what to say to him though, as he was told that these thoughts werent proper, especially about the man he would always call Master. He simply stands, offering Obi-Wan a genuine, if not sad smile. Obi-Wan returns the sad smile, lingering on the younger man's eyes, before returning his gaze to the contents of the cup.

"Goodnight, Obi-Wan," Anakin says gazing across the room, waiting for Obi-Wan to regard him. He simply waves a tired hand and revels in silence in solitude. Anakin gently shuts his door and begins undressing.

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Obi-Wan Kenobi is thirty-five years, three-hundred and sixty-one days, and one hour old when he begins to question the path he has chosen being a Jedi.

He lays sprawled out on the not-so-worn sofa with a thin blanket over a well defined bare torso, going over Anakin's grocery list. Adjusting a pair of metal rimmed glasses, Obi-Wan skims the messy handwriting for anything of nutritional value, wondering at the same time why Anakin refuses to use the technology present in this day and age, the data pad, to create such things. But he knows that Anakin prefers the human touch. Perhaps Anakin could have been something other than a Jedi, as well. Anakin would have made a fine artist, with his insatiable desire to sample textures and colour, his passion for whatever he chooses to pursue.

Immediately Obi-Wan shakes his head in disapproval. Obi-Wan Kenobi has devoted his life to the Jedi Order since the age of three. It doesn't matter that sometimes he wishes he had a child, that he would have loved to study science. It doesn't matter that Anakin looks every bit the brooding artist, though inside he is enamoured with the everyday miracles of sunrises and the shadows cast in the marble floors that lead to the southern hangar.

It doesn't matter that Obi-Wan wants something more, and that he can never tell anyone this, much less have whatever it is that he apparently lacks in his life. It doesn't matter that the thing that he apparently lacks is Anakin and his warmth in this cold apartment. It doesn't matter how fucking wrong that is.

Obi-Wan slams the list on the table, suddenly frustrated and full of questions. He removes the reading glasses and wraps the blanket closer around his half-exposed body, walking to the wash room. After securing the door, he glances in the full length mirror for a moment, before tugging his knit sleep pants to the floor. His eyes rise slowly, examining his body. The skin is somewhat light, definitely lighter than Anakin's, he being an overly dressed Jedi all of his known life, Anakin having been a desert slave. But under the skin, years of kinesis is apparent and beautiful, as muscle and sinew define and disappear. Obi-Wan remembers being younger and disapprovingly in love, wondering what parts of his body were beautiful. After weeks of examining his strong padawan body, he decided his favourite parts were his belly, which, though flat and muscled, is also soft and fuzzy, a shallow navel that never shows, but would be irresistible to touch. He also decided that he had nice shoulders, strong and dependable from holding up the world. Following the trail of hair on his stomach, he is reminded of another part he never gets to use, but loves all the same.

_Obi-Wan, you're a grown man. You're too old for this kind of thing_, he thinks as he considers taking a long shower. Grimacing at himself, he simply, _routinely_, turns on the shower and waits as the water warms up.

Since when had kinesis become routine?

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Anakin is twenty years, two-hundred and fifteen days and twelve hours old when he first hears Obi-Wan moaning languorously in the shower. As he shifts in the bed, he smiles sleepily, imagining that there is no better way to wake up. It is a light sound, just barely audible though the wall, almost covered entirely by the sound of the spray of water. Anakin feels let-down when he doesn't hear it again, deciding that it was probably a rather disappointing orgasm. He slides out of bed, scratching his stomach a little, and making his way out into the common room.

A blanket is thrown across the couch, and Anakin welcomes the fragrant Obi-Warmth of it, relaxing against the cushions. It is early yet, and he and Obi-Wan have plans to go to the market today. Lifting his paper grocery list, with several new items in tense, vertical handwriting, he notices the datapad underneath it blinking. Anakin's eyes scan the blue screen, reading the typed note.

_Anakin: I've added specific items to your list. Please pick them up. I'm not up to going out today. Thank you. _

Anakin pouts, slamming the piece of plastic onto the table. He rather enjoys their grocery excursions.

"Obi-Wan, stop acting like an old fart," Anakin says to no one in particular. "I suppose I'll have to come to the rescue again," he adds with a smile.

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Edited 12.26.05


	2. The Gift

**How Kenobi Got His Groove Back:Alchemy Dream**

**A/N: **Okay, so a month later, my lazy ass updates this. No, for anyone actually _reading_ this, it's not that I'm lazy, I just kinda forgot where I was going with it! That's a really scary place to be. Oh well, I'm tired of worrying about what everyone will think of it...I'm just gonna throw it out here.

So enjoy. Or not. Reviews are love.

**Summary:** All it took was a light-hearted quip from Mace Windu to send Obi-Wan Kenobi off the edge and into insecurity. Anakin is fed up with his ex-master's age-related blubbering and is determined to show him exactly _how_ beautiful he is.

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Anakin is twenty years, two-hundred and fifteen days and fourteen hours old when he nearly wrecks a speeder while having naughty thoughts about its owner, and he is positive that Obi-Wan would never accept that as an excuse.

That is, of course, given Obi-Wan didn't suspect the fantasies were about _him_.

He pushes forward, guiding the vehicle away from the docked Corellian fruit vendor and past the orange striped speeder he knocked into it, making his way back into the stream of morning traffic.

Anakin loves piloting the speeder alone. He loves Obi-Wan's speeder in particular. Whenever Obi-Wan drives it around town, it travels at a normal, acceptable speed, and he never forgets to signal when he's turning. He never turns on the radio, drives while intoxicated, and Anakin is pretty sure he doesn't _ever_ think about stopping traffic to masturbate. The yellow, open-cockpit air speeder is Obi-Wan as a vehicle.

This is why Anakin loves to drive it. He loves to get in Obi-Wan's speeder and go faster than acceptable, pushing its limits, its patience. Give it a work out. Anakin loves to turn the radio up and sing at the top of his lungs when something good comes on. Anakin has had many adventures in Obi-Wan's speeder. He had driven it naked one night, without permission, for shits and giggles, and been met in the hangar by a not-so stoked Obi-Wan. He had felt bad for stealing it, in the buff no less, but had felt worse when Obi-Wan chastised him not for his nudity and pranking tendencies, but for making him worry. It had taken a long time for Anakin to regain Obi-Wan's trust. Of course, he likes to think that Obi-Wan enjoyed that gratuitous view of his body, draped lithely over the black leather seat of his speeder.

Of course, he knows it will never be true.

Anakin docks the speeder at the sidewalk by the market, and jumps out, grabbing a large beige canvas sack from a hanging rack outside the window of the shop. A bell chimes lightly as he enters the grocery, a gust of air from the vents by the door blowing his robe up a little. Pulling out the crumpled list from his pants pocket, Anakin studies the list. Memorizing the products he has to buy, he tosses the paper away into a garbage bin, and makes his way down the network of aisles. He picks up the following items in this order: Fourteen packets of instant pudding mix, chocolate and citrus-vanilla, two medium sacks of wheat flour, six packets of chocolate and butterscotch chips (for pancakes, of course), four gallons of blue milk, a box of green medeis tea bags, two loaves of sweetberry bread, fudge ice pops, cooking spuds, two heads of mixed lettuce, cooking oil, and a small bag of mixed fruits (cherries, mangoes, and Alderaanian globe grapes). Anakin hoists the bag over his shoulder, and moves to the self serve station to pick up some coffee beans for Obi-Wan. He particularly likes raspberry coffee. After filling a small bag, and using the vacuum sealer to close it, he makes his way to the toiletries section, vaguely remembering that Obi-Wan had wanted some soap. He scans the hundreds of brands of identical soaps for the one single bar that Obi-Wan likes, being the brand name soap-whore he is. Looking over the names, searching for the kind Obi-Wan listed, he sees a particularly pink soap, called 'Youthful Beauty.' He snorts at this, almost buying it for the sheer look of rage on Obi-Wan's tortured face, imagining he would secretly use it in the refresher anyways.

After several impatient minutes scanning the personal items, Anakin becomes frustrated and walks away, convinced the bastard is making up products that don't exist just to drive him mad. He slams the bag in front of the clerk a little harder than he means to, and smiles curtly.

"Do you carry, oh, _Sith_, what is it called? Ah, yes. Seidoshi soap?"

The young woman smacks her gum and looks thoughtful for a moment, scanning the items and loading them into another canvas bag.

"Nahsah, I thank we'a dun carry dat no mores. Ya mah trah the candle shop a few level uppa," she says in a thick accent. Anakin looks around at the stands by the register. He hates that they put all the good stuff up front to tempt him.

"Ah, thank you," he trails off, and grabs three expensive chocolate bars, placing them in front of her.

"No need to bag these, thanks," he smiles at her. She finishes sacking the items, and presses a few buttons.

"Repahblic credit?"

"Yes," Anakin says, pulling his and Obi-Wan's joint credit card from his pocket.

"Ninety credits," she says, holding it to a sensor until it beeps, confirming the card. "Sign hea."

Anakin signs the holopad in her hands with the pen, wincing at the price, and grabs the groceries from the woman.

"Thanks, Mista Skywalka." Anakin offers a wave as he walks away, unwrapping one chocolate bar with his free hand, and wonders what the _hell_ he bought.

_Obi-Wan's gonna kill me._

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Anakin steps in the outdoor elevator that transports him to the third floor above the market, wondering if Obi-Wan is a regular patron at what just may be Coruscant's most feminine shop.

Upon entering, the strong scent of several different strains of flower and woman attack his senses. Anakin wrinkles his nose a little in distaste, and prays to the Force that it will not adhere to his manly Jedi robes.

There are racks upon racks of different shaped candles, a product of yesteryear when everything wasn't powered by electricity. Now they are mostly novelty items, although Anakin hates the heady smell of them. He prefers the translucent scent of incense. In the corner, there is a large rack of personal care items.

"May I help you, sir?" a woman draped in a purple robe asks Anakin. Anakin winces. He had hoped he would not be noticed, that he would be able to get in and out discreetly.

"No, thank you," he says, making his way to the corner. She smiles knowingly, irking him further.

Anakin once again scans the hundreds of soaps, finally locating the soap, simply wrapped in brown paper with the word 'Seidoshi' stamped in elegant letters. It is wrapped in a gold ribbon. _'Lovely packaging,'_ Anakin thinks, fingering the ribbon, twining the loop of the bow with his hand.

"Lovely choice, sir. You have fine tastes," the woman says from behind him. Anakin jumps with surprise, instinctively hiding it in his hands.

"Oh, it isn't for me. It's for my friend," he says, blushing, and he doesn't know why. The woman smirks.

"Ah, your 'friend'. I see. Well, your 'friend' has fine tastes. Special occasion?"

_Quite a nosy character we have here,_ Anakin snorts to himself.

"No, he just has _expensive_ tastes," Anakin says, enjoying the intrigued look on her face.

"Quite a catch, then," she says, smirking, no doubt concocting a private narrative. Anakin smiles and leans closer, cocking his eyebrows suggestively, deciding to entertain both of their fantasies.

"Yes, my _Master_ only wants the finest things touching his body. And of course, his pleasure is _always_ my priority," Anakin says, running a hand through his hair and bringing the soap to his nose, inhaling deeply. The woman looks at him, her cheeks a deep red. She chuckles a little, shaking her head.

"Well, sir, might I suggest that you have a look atour _other_ items," she says, waving a hand to the shelf next to them. Anakin smiles a little, oblivious.

"I might just do that," he says, amused at the idea of buying Obi-Wan a quaint little vanilla candle.

She walks away, entertaining her naughty thoughts about the two strangers, and Anakin barely stifles a laugh. Candle-selling must be a lonely job. He turns around to look at the items on the shelf next to him, and his breathing hitches in his throat.

In front of him stands an assortment of massage oils, lubricants, and mint stimulants. In every flavour and scent imaginable. He cranes his neck upwards, observing the more explicit adult materials, and upon blushing a fiery shade of red, turns his attentions back to the oils. They are all beautifully packaged, wrapped in ribbons, and there are samples sitting in front of each one. He stands for a moment, and looks around to see if anyone is watching.

Anakin picks out a small glass bottle labeled 'sandalwood spice,' and twists the cap open. His nose hovers over the opening, and he inhales deeply. The scent is musky and masculine, citrusy and alive, lustful and eager-intentioned. It evokes images in his mind, images of Obi-Wan sprawled in front of him, writhing in between the sheets as Anakin directs him and watches him. Anakin shudders a little, and caps the bottle.

He picks up another one.

This one says 'fresh laundry'. Anakin gives his olfactory senses a moment to recover and inhales the smell, smiling as it resonates in his brain. It smells like laundry day at the Temple. Anakin imagines Obi-Wan propped up against the wall in the communal laundry room, the two of them wrapped nude in a warm, fragrant, fresh-from-the-dryer bed linen, enjoying warm, lazy afternoon kisses and the thrill of the possibility of being caught.

Anakin feels a twitching in his lower regions and thinks that maybe it's time to leave.

But he can't.

Anakin samples the scents of sixteen massage oils, and two lubricants, each bringing to his imagination a new scenario, the sound of Obi-Wan moaning in the shower earlier that morning fueling the realism of the dream.

Anakin buys three bottles of massage oil, one small, discreet bottle of lubricant, and a package of glow in the dark adhesive stars. Oh, and a bar of fancy-pants soap.

"Will that be Republic credits?"

"Yes," Anakin says, blushing furiously, and pulls out the joint credit card, immediately regretting it. He is sure he will never have the chance to use the items with Obi-Wan, and now he will see the items on the monthly credit statement. He will end up a heavily scrutinized, lonely Jedi Knight who cries, eats fattening ice cream, and sniffs sex oils whimsically before bed. Anakin scowls with discontent, wishing his mind to stop resigning him to such a humiliating fate.

"One-hundred credits," she states, scanning the card and smiling. "Jedi, huh..?" Anakin feels his cheeks tingling.

"That's none of your business," he says callously, and grabs the black sack from the clerk, and signs the holopad.

"Enjoy," the lady says, giggling a little at the flustered Jedi.

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Obi-Wan Kenobi is thirty-five years, three-hundred and sixty-two days and twelve hours old when he's pretty sure that Anakin is hiding something. He isn't quite sure just what it is, but the boy seems considerably fidgety and jumpy lately. For the past twenty-four hours, he has kept his bedroom highly guarded, sliding from inside, and immediately pulling the door shut. Obi-Wan doesn't think there's a good reason to be concerned, but his curiosity is immobilizing. Usually, Anakin is the kind to leave his dirty clothes sitting around on the floor, his door wide open with the holovision blaring loudly. Obi-Wan writes this off as Anakin going through a phase.

"Obi-Wan? Are you listening?"

Obi-Wan blinks a little, looking across the table at Mace, who has a relatively bemused look on his face as he steeples his fingers together.

"Ah, I'm sorry," he smiles, lifting the mug to his lips, sipping the fresh tea he had Anakin boil. Mace arcs an eyebrow, and likewise, takes a sip of his tea.

"So, are we all set for Tuesday?" Mace says. Obi-Wan looks at him thoughtfully, and hastily directs his gaze back to Anakin's bedroom door. Mace follows his gaze, looking from door to Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan to door. "Obi-Wan, what is so interesting about that door?"

"It's nothing, Mace. Tuesday...I don't know. I'm beginning to think I'm too old for this sort of thing," Obi-Wan says.

"You have to be kidding, old friend! We have done this for nearly eighteen years! You cannot go breaking tradition now, Obi-Wan. Come on, drinks on me," Mace coaxes, and getting no reaction adds, "You can bring Skywalker, of course. Please, Obi-Wan?" Obi-Wan sighs a little, smiling.

"Okay."

Mace claps his hands lightly, pleased with his diplomatic negotiations.

"So, where will the festivities take place? How about Trœs? Sound good?" Mace smiles, "They are _famous_ for their death-by-chocolate rum. You can even mix in flavours. Like raspberry," Mace says in a sing-song voice. Obi-Wan laughs a little.

For as long as Obi-Wan has known him, the very idea of getting hammered fills Mace Windu with joy. He loves any excuse to drink, and because he knows Obi-Wan's birth date, he annually exploits it. Obi-Wan figures that otherwise, he would have never gotten to meet Mace.

Obi-Wan is sold.

"Trœs it is, Mace," he says, standing to escort his friend out of the apartment. Mace bows and smiles, swishing elegantly down the hall. He turns suddenly and grins.

"You won't regret this."

And for some reason, Obi-Wan has a feeling he will.

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Edited 12.26.05


	3. Let Me Help You Unwind

**How Kenobi Got His Groove Back:Alchemy Dream**

**A/N: **And...I finally get another chapter out! I hope that if you're still reading this that you're enjoying the story so far, and that you enjoy this chapter! I have gone back and done some very minor editing on the other chapters. Feedback is very welcome, and reviews are love.

**Warning: **This chapter makes full use of the 'M' rating. This contains some Jedi hotness . You have been warned.

**Summary:** All it took was a light-hearted quip from Mace Windu to send Obi-Wan Kenobi off the edge and into insecurity. Anakin is fed up with his ex-master's age-related blubbering and is determined to show him exactly _how_ beautiful he is.

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_And theres my mind saying think before you go  
Through that door it could lead to nowhere (this guy)  
Has got you all romantic crazy in your head  
Do you think I listen, no I don't care. _

_-Kylie Minogue "Red Blooded Woman"_

Obi-Wan Kenobi is thirty-five years, three-hundred and sixty-three days and nineteen hours old when he is convinced that the ceiling of the apartment is going to cave in. Anakin has been guarding his door for the last twenty-four hours like a sentinel, and he is most _certainly_ up to something.

Every few seconds, Obi-Wan hears Anakin's mattress shudder as he jumps on it, followed by a loud _bang!_ on the ceiling that makes him want to go ahead and call the temple repair team. He knows he should march right in there and ask, no, _command_ that Anakin stop whatever the hell he is doing right now. _Damn_ his respect for the man's privacy.

Stretching up on his very tip-toes to the highest shelf in the pantry, he blindly gathers up a handful of spices, a sack of rice, a few peppers, tomatoes, and raspberries. Missions have been few and far between this month, allowing Obi-Wan for some time to experiment with his recipes. So far he has learned that peanuts are not good in cereal, that adding chocolate to everything in every form _will _ end up in a six pound weight gain, and that his "five alarm midnight chili" causes Anakin to stay locked in the washroom until dawn.

Tonight's special is a rice dish with peppers and a raspberry and orange glaze. For how much Obi-Wan preaches to Anakin that simple, plain, bland meals are good for the body and soul, how they aid with meditation, he has become quite the chef, mixing and matching spices and textures. Of course, the true test of edibility is always Anakin. They have developed a very subtle and precise code to communicate the success of Obi-Wan's meals. When Anakin stands up and leaves murmuring something about take-out, it means it wasn't one of his better dishes.

Reaching back into the pantry, he grasps unsuccessfully for a bottle of cooking oil. Surely Anakin had bought the cooking oil? The list _really_ hadn't been that long, and for all of the items he seemed to have brought home, the cooking oil should be there. He moves his hand around, searching his feelings for a glass bottle. Coming out empty handed, he makes a grumpy sound and instead goes to the refrigerator for a pat of butter. He lets the butter melt in the pan, watching it begin to bubble, and then pours the water and the rice into the bottom. Covering the pan with the lid, he pads to Anakin's room, still perplexed at the rhythmic noise. He worries his lip a little, and knocks hesitantly.

The noise stops.

Obi-Wan presses his ear to the door, picking up the sounds of Anakin moving something around in his room, and then at the footsteps towards the door. In a blur and a rush of air, Anakin is outside, the door pulled firmly shut. They stand and stare at each other for a moment.

"Anakin, I was noticing that we have no cooking oil. I was _sure_ I put it on the list! Did you not pick it up yesterday?" Obi-Wan says indifferently as he makes his way to tend to chopping the vegetables. Anakin follows him to the counter, and looks strangely at him.

"No, Mas...Obi-Wan, I'm pretty sure I bought it. Did you look in the pantry?" he says, moving to look in the pantry for himself. Obi-Wan shouts over the sound of Anakin rustling through boxes and sacks, tossing can goods out onto the floor.

"Well, if you didnt, then you'll have to-Anakin, stop throwing those! They'll bust," Obi-Wan says, stirring and scowling. Anakin turns and glowers at Obi-Wan for a moment, and then raises to his feet, getting on tip-toe to look at the very top shelf. Smiling, he grabs the bottle of cooking oil and walks over to Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan feels a blush creep to his cheeks, and immediately turns so that Anakin can't see his face.

"Don't say it, Anakin," he mutters. Anakin just grins, creeps behind the makeshift chef, wrapping his arms around his torso and resting his chin on Obi-Wan's head for emphasis.

"I'm sorry, Obi-Wan. I won't put things on the top shelf anymore," Obi-Wan moves forwards, trying to free himself of his mocking apprentice. Anakin, however, refuses to let go of Obi-Wan.

"Don't worry, Obi-Wan! I like you just the way you are. You're _very_ comfy to rest my head on," he snickers. Obi-Wan finally shakes free of Anakin, and shoots him a serious look. He turns off the burner and sprinkles bright, colourful vegetables into the rice and stirs the mixture, pouring the mouthwatering red glaze over it all. He mixes it all up and divides the meal into two large bowls.

"We have something we need to discuss anyways, Anakin," Obi-wan says, gesturing for Anakin to sit, and places the bowls on either side of the small table. Anakin swallows, having a pretty good feeling that it will have, in some way, something to do with his being a little spendthrift. He sits down, and tries to come off nonchalant about the whole thing, digging voraciously into the rice. Obi-Wan, however, takes his time, taking a small bite, and then taking larger ones, deciding that it really isn't too bad. He clears his throat and runs a hand through his sandy hair.

"I got my bill today," he says casually. Anakin nearly chokes on his food, and does his best to cover the cough with a clearing of the throat. Which really isn't any more effective. Obi-Wan looks suspiciously at him, raising an eyebrow.

"One hundred and ninety credits? For a trip to the market?" Anakin sits up, suddenly defensive.

"Obi-Wan! I had to make a special trip to a...a woman's _sex_ shop to get your damned soap! I think that I earned my share of the credits!" Anakin nearly shouts. Obi-Wan raises his hands in a peaceful gesture.

"Yes, but there is no reason to be secretive about what you buy, hiding in your room like that! I already have the statement, Anakin, and there's no need to be ashamed about buying...oils...for your," Obi-Wan struggles to keep his composure, "_personal needs,_" he mutters, looking away, "but at least be honest with me. I think that I have _earned_ your trust."

Anakin remains silent, his head spinning. He reaches up and tugs frustratedly on his hair. Obi-Wan thinks he bought the oils as a lubricant for masturbation! He feels his face grow red, and slams his finished bowl down on the table.

"They aren't for me, Obi-Wan!" he says, and then mentally slaps himself. Obi-Wan arches an eyebrow, now interested. He puts his fork in the bowl, and leans back in the chair.

"Well, dear Anakin, what in the blazes did you buy them for?" he asks, dreading the answer.

"It's none of your business," he says. Obi-Wan bites his lip. He knows that Anakin must surely have had sexual experience by now, and while it isn't his place to encourage or _dis_courage him on those matters anymore, he still wrestles with concern for his Anakin's sex life.

Or more accurately, jealousy.

"Anakin, you are no longer my Padawan, though I hope you will take my advice to heart. Don't let your feelings deceive you. You are a Jedi, and you must exercise caution with matters of the heart. Find relief when you need it, but do not form attachments. Especially to the young Senator." Anakin stares incredulously at Obi-Wan, who looks away.

"With all due respect, this conversations has _nothing_ to do with you, and should have ended long ago! Half of our spending limit belongs to _me_, and I deserve to not be questioned for what I buy!" Anakin is angry at Obi-Wan's serenity, his seeming authority over his life, even now. He needs to say something, anything! Something hurtful! And fast. He needs a good idea. He stands up from the table, and slams the bowl down into the sink. Walking brusquely towards his bedroom, and running his hand over his stomach for sultry emphasis, he turns at Obi-Wan, who still sits, contemplative at the table.

"And besides, if you _really_ must know, _Master_, the oils _are_ for Padme. It's a really great feeling, you know, _not_ having to settle for weak climaxes from my own hand," he spits, blood boiling from frustration. His heart begins pounding in sadness as the words trickle through his lips like venom. Slamming the door, he sits at the edge of his bed, holding his shaking head in his hands.

Sometimes his good ideas are really just bad ones in pretty wrapping.

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All of the lights are turned out in the Kenobi-Skywalker apartment, as an aging man lies, hollowed in his bed.

Obi-Wan Kenobi is thirty-five years, three-hundred and sixty-three days and twenty-one hours old, and he just cannot stop the anger, the frustration, the tears. He isn't sure if it's just the onset of a mid-life crisis, or maybe it it's something more curable. Something that meditation would take care of. But the void in his heart is a hole that nothing will seem to fill. He is proud of his accomplishments, of who he has become, but he is ashamed that none of it will ever matter if he can't get what he wants. What he lacks.

Love.

He has known love, sure. That was the first mistake, one that he vowed to never make again. He had loved Qui-Gon, just as Qui-Gon had loved him. Even as Qui-Gon lectured him about how wrong love was, Qui-Gon loved him. Obi-Wan enjoyed coming home every night to a warm apartment, to warm arms that he could rest in. It was a simple love, one that needed no words. It was uncomplicated in its very nature, a mutual agreement to watch one another's back, to protect the other, and to keep each other warm without forming attachments. Of course, Obi-Wan had failed in every way.

He had failed in protecting his Master, and in not forming an attachment to him. For months after his Master's death at the hands of the Sith, Obi-Wan had perched at the edge of his bed, his new Padawan crawling mercilessly over him like a jungle gym. And for the first time in his life, he experienced hatred. Hatred for the Sith, and hatred for Qui-Gon for leaving him. For putting him in an impossible position, allowing him to fall in love, and then experience loss. The addition of Anakin in his life was no consolation. The young one did nothing but ask questions, most of which Obi-Wan had no answers for. Qui-Gon, gentle, wise Qui-Gon Jinn had chosen Anakin to love, and upon his death, passed that choice on to Obi-Wan. Even worse, Obi-Wan had made that choice, sealing his never ending cycle of error.

Obi-Wan wants to believe that Anakin isn't fully aware how much his words and actions hurt him. He wants to think that deep inside, Anakin feels the same way about him. He spends sleepless nights mulling through everything Anakin says, looking for any sign that Anakin has affection, or even care for his former Master. He examines his touches, his actions, for anything that speaks of a mutual desire. And of course, when he doesn't find any, he fills in the gaps with fantasy. He is ashamed of his mind and its ability to accurately depict he and Anakin fucking on the countertops, in between the sheets, and under the spray of water in the refresher. It happens at the strangest of times. Just an amiable touch to his shoulder is just enough information to send his mind off into wonderment of what the same touch would feel like in the small of his back, short nails digging slightly into his skin. From there, it progresses to watching Anakin's mouth hang open in ecstasy, his long, soft and wet tongue licking Obi-Wan's earlobe gently, his voice whispering dreamily inside his ear how many ways he wants him tonight.

But even this is never enough. It's never real enough to send Obi-Wan over the edge. Obi-Wan isn't sure if it's some kind of dysfunction in his anatomy or his imagination, but as of late, much to his shame and chagrin, orgasm eludes him.

He can jerk away to the dirtiest thoughts ever concocted, come right to the edge, and it stops. He can't move past the edge. His dread is palpable; he's heard of men turning towards their forties and becoming unable to..._you know. _Grimacing at the thought, he runs a hand over his face, groaning at the very thought of getting _that_ old.

_It's a really great feeling, you know, not having to settle for weak climaxes from my own hand_.

It really shouldn't bother him. Obi-Wan's private life is of no concern to Anakin. Even if Anakin suspects that his former Master is having...issues, it shouldn't bother him at all.

But it does.

He wonders how Anakin sees him. He wonders if he only sees an aging, dysfunctional old man. With a bald spot. He constantly wonders if growing a beard was such a good idea, if he has bags under his eyes, to match the ugly little wrinkles, if Anakin notices that his lips are thin. He worries that Anakin doesn't like his freckles, the prominent dimple in his chin, and, oh Sith, the peppering grey that is making itself known around his temple. Even if Anakin _did _cause it. He sometimes wishes he had the timeless beauty that Padme had, the perfect bone structure, and oh, the full, luxurious lips. He would do anything to have lips worthy of planting a big one on Anakin's petulant pout.

Obi-Wan slams his head back onto his pillow, groaning. He should be happy! Going out with Mace should make him forget things a little bit. Looking at the clock, he decides now is as good as any to go to sleep. While lying in bed, he removes his leather belt and obi, easing off the heavy, warm tunics from his shoulders. He slides the pants and leggings from his thin hips, sighing a little at the contact of the cool sheets on his taut belly and chest and adjusting his legs under the covers to stretch out. Gloriously nude in his bed, he cups his hand over his groin to prevent arousal from the sensuous sheets. This of course, doesn't work, as his favourite fantasy floods his mind. He sighs softly as his dream Anakin sashays out of his mind and into his bed, like a monster with thousands of mouths and hands, nowhere and everywhere all at once. Soft lips nip at and whisper into his ear as this thousand-armed, beautiful Jedi god sets fire to every inch of his skin, promising release with every touch. Obi-Wan does his best to keep himself quiet, as his hand rubs over his leaking tip. He archs his back as Anakin plays with his overly-sensitive nipples, licking them and running one of his hands through the patch of soft hair there. He grinds his body against his lover, seeking friction and approval. Obi-Wan grabs his ass and speeds his movement, causing his love to shudder and thrust against him harder. Harder! Ohh...harder!

"Harder," Obi-Wan whispers to himself, just the sound of his voice, the imagined scenario of himself demanding and begging Anakin to touch him sending him flying. His heart is pounding, and he is so close! He grunts a little, the feeling coming over him. Every nerve tingles, his mouth opens to scream and...

He loses it.

Anakin leaves him, as does his hand, which has given up, and Obi-Wan groans loudly in dissatisfaction.

"Fucking Sith!" he shouts, hating the hot tears leaking from his eyes, hating himself for never being good enough.

And everything is quiet again.

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Anakin shoots up in his bed at the sound, the _feeling_ of upset from his former Master's bedroom. He turns over, debating whether or not to search Obi-Wan's mind, to reach out and give some kind of comfort, or leave him alone.

_After all, you've really done it now, Anakin._

Staring at the glowing stars he has painstakingly attached to his ceiling, his heart skips a beat, remembering the venomous words that he shot at Obi-Wan, shaking his head sadly. Any comfort he gave Obi-Wan would no doubt, be ill-received after the scene he made. He is sure that his anger has a hand in Obi-Wan's pain, and he sighs, making a small whimpering sound of irritation at himself.

Regardless of the consequence of his curiosity, Anakin hesitantly reaches out over their bond, looking for the source of Obi-Wan's distress. He is surprised when he isn't met with shields, but pain. Something is definitely wrong. Anakin gathers his courage and lifts himself from the bed, pulling a pair of discarded sleep pants over his lithe body. He walks out of his bedroom to Obi-Wan's next to his. Palming the door open slightly, his mouth opens silently, agape at what his eyes drink in.

Obi-Wan lies, back arched up off the bed, furiously trying to get himself off. The sheets have slid down to only cover his feet, revealing what Anakin has longed to see. His heart races at the sight of his perfect body, pumping and twisting. He licks his lips at the shape the moonlight makes across his stomach, at the way it falls over his hand as it moves up and down. And ohhh...what his hand is moving up and down _on_.

Such perfection.

He prods at Obi-Wan's mind again, this time finding desperation. His eyes open wide as he connects the feelings. How could he have not known! Granted, he had noticed an increased frustration in his companion, and there had been that incident in the shower...but never would he have even thought that Obi-Wan Kenobi was having that kind of..._trouble._

Anakin wants to hit himself. And those things he had said? Hatefully insinuating that Obi-Wan was a lonely man who only had his hand to keep him company! How he wishes he'd known, before falsifying those words, halfheartedly trying to hurt him. Anakin prods Obi-Wan's mind once more, hoping and praying to not be caught, and is shocked at the image that is projected. Obi-Wan is fantasizing.

About _him._

Anakin's jaw nearly drops at what his oh-so virginal Master has him doing in his deepest fantasy, his every hope being answered in that one instant. Anakin instantly wants to rush in there, aid Obi-Wan with his pleasure-seeking, apologize and put an end to their years of sexual tension. But it is too soon. Anakin knows that Obi-Wan would be hurt if he knew that he was delving into his most private thoughts...such brash and bold action could only end in more pain for the two. Anakin palms the door shut again, wondering how, if there is any possible way to help Obi-Wan.  
He smiles. If Obi-Wan wants a fantasy, he'll _give _him a fantasy.

He pads back to his room, shedding his pants and making sure not to snag his erection. Sliding into his still warm bed, he works for a moment to silently strengthen his and Obi-Wan's connection, allowing them both to see glimpses of each other without it being blatant enough to startle Obi-Wan. He pulls the covers around his body and bends his knees up, taking himself into his hands. The motion elicits a few light moans, and he allows the image of Obi-Wan to flood his senses. The way the skin around his eyes would wrinkle as his eyes snap shut when Anakin rubs his lips along that sexy beard that he hates to love. The touch of his calloused hands, the warmth and scent of his skin, the brush of his hair and the taste of his lips and tongue against his own. Anakin can barely stop his voice from crying out.

"Ohhh..." he moans loudly, allowing the sound to penetrate both their connection and the thin wall that separates them. He feels a spark in his mind and smiles. Obi-Wan heard him, and is responding to his voice, his pleasure, without even _knowing _it.

Anakin begins searching Obi-Wan's desires, elaborating a little with his own. Soon, he can hear through the wall, the strangled sighs, the erotic sounds, the light moans his work is causing. Anakin connects himself to Obi-Wan's pace, moaning loudly, putting on a show. He begins rocking his body, allowing the mattress to shudder against his ministrations. The sounds arouse him, the heaviness of his breathing, his words coaxing both of them, the bed echoing his rhythm. Moans and whines volley back and forth, pushing them both to the edge. Anakin knows he is close.

"Ohh...harder, fuck Obi-Wan! Harder!" he growls, imagining Obi-Wan deep inside him, above him, a sexy smirk on his face as he thrusts into him. Anakin feels the sheath of sweat break over his skin, and desperately wants Obi-Wan there with him. He searches for the right words, the words that can bring Obi-Wan there. Listening to Obi-Wan moaning in the other room, he returns to his fantasy, and cries Obi-Wan's name as his back arches up off the bed.

"Ohhhhbi-Wan! Come for me, now!" Anakin groans loudly as he finishes, and smiles, moaning again as he hears an erotic noise from the other bedroom. He smirks a little, happy to know that for what he is now sure isn't the first time, he's indirectly responsible for Obi-Wan's sticky sheets. But then, as many luscious possibilities the morning after may hold, there are also a wealth of more probable, bad reactions his former Master could have.

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	4. Slow

**How Kenobi Got His Groove Back:Alchemy Dream**

**A/N: **Thank you so much for following my baby here, and I truly hope you enjoyed yourselves. There will be a short epilogue after this. As always, feedback is welcome, and reviews are love.

_The song "Can't Help Falling In Love" is performed by Elvis Presley, and can be available for download on my LiveJournal on request. I highly recommend it. _

**Warning: **Slash, language, steaminess and karaoke.

**Summary: **All it took was a light-hearted quip from Mace Windu to send Obi-Wan Kenobi off the edge and into insecurity. Anakin is fed up with his ex-master's age-related blubbering and is determined to show him exactly how beautiful he is.

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Obi-Wan Kenobi is thirty-five years, three-hundred and sixty-four days and seven hours old as he lays awake basking in early morning sunlight, contemplating braving the emotional battleground his and Anakin's apartment is quickly becoming. Unsuccessfully scratching his fuzzy thigh with his short, prim fingernail, he rolls to his right to look through the curtains at the traffic, finding solace in its noisy distraction.

Air speeders pepper the saffron sky, catching glints of sunlight that ricochet in rainbows onto his white walls.

This is the first night in nearly a month that Obi-Wan has slept through the night, not waking to watch the shadows of night move on the wall. He is thankful that there are no meetings or agendas whatsoever today, because he no doubt would have missed them, waking up as late as he has. Usually up and going by six thirty in the morning, Obi-Wan glances at the clock, making a whining noise as it displays a bright, blinking nine fifty-four.

Pulling his body-warmed sheets further over himself to block out the cold, his fingers trace the vulgar, now hard stain that rests near his navel. Fighting off a flushed face, he changes his mind about sleeping in further, opting to instead hoist himself from the groaning mattress, gloriously naked, and begins rolling the sheets off of his bed into a pile in the corner of the room for the laundry tomorrow.

Tomorrow he will be thirty-six years old.

Obi-Wan snorts, tossing the pillowcases into the haphazard pile with the bed linens. Another year separating himself and Anakin. Thirty-six. _Thirty-SIX!_ He notes, for the thousandth time that thirty-six is only four years from forty.

Anakin is twenty, almost twenty-one. Anakin is in the prime of his life, frustratingly agile, devastatingly beautiful, youthfully charming, and infuriatingly sexual.

Thinking back to last night, Obi-Wan stands in front of his full length mirror, examining himself. His fantasies must be getting out of control, because it had seemed almost as if Anakin was there with him, coming with him, talking to him. Usually, Anakin is a mute presence, bringing imaginary pleasure to him at the high price of _still_ falling asleep _alone_ in the end. But this time was different – he had heard him. He had felt his entire body flush with warmth at the beautiful, husky voice in his head, like a whisper.

"_Ohhhhbi-Wan! Come for me, now!"_

Closing his eyes, he recreates the sound of that lush tenor, losing control of himself, the sensation of letting out that long, feral moan. It had been more real than _most_ other things he'd experienced. The boy had reached inside of him, pushed aside his insecurities, and brought him to completion.

But it was all an illusion, and something that would never happen. After all, there was high competition for such affections, the stiffest of it coming complete with breasts and senatorial duties. Running a saber-calloused hand down through the soft hair on his belly, over packed muscles, he wonders if Anakin fucks Padmé the way he does Obi-Wan in his dreams, if he makes her see colours, lights, love where there was none before, if she feels utterly complete when he touches her. He wonders how much experience his former apprentice _really_ has with women, if she takes the time to fully inspect every crevice of his body, give him what he needs and rightfully deserves. He wonders if they make love in the dark, or with the lights on. Surely he loves seducing her back in her quarters, with the ivory basin filled with bubble bath, the lush king size bed covered with pink velvet and black satin sheets. Of course, he has no idea what her rooms look like, but his mind can't help inventing new insecurities. His imagination is a train wreck waiting to happen, and all he can do is watch, relentlessly cover all the angles.

And cry.

Reaching up, he touches a spot of wetness that lingers on his lashes. The only way to defeat this is to let go. Anakin will never be his, he will never see anything of worth, of beauty, in such an old man. It can never work. Biting his lip, he stiffens his resolve, pulling on a white knee-length terry cloth robe. He was able to move past Siri, and Qui-Gon, and he can move past Anakin. Tying the belt, he wipes his eyes one last time before facing that which he hopes to forget.

But no one is home.

Opening the door, Obi-Wan moves slowly and quietly, his bare feet lightly sounding on the tile. Everything is considerably clean, dishes piled in the sink from Anakin's breakfast, which clearly took four bowls, a whisk, a plate, two spoons and six forks to make. Opening up the refrigerator, he instinctually pulls out the tub of butter, opening it just enough to notice that, of course, there are thousands of toast crumbs mixed with the butter. On any other day, he would huff about, spooning out the _ruined_ butter, all the while lecturing Anakin on how "_Anakin, you were offered your own quarters, and you refused, and if we are to remain living together we have to learn to respect each other's belongings. Now I know that we both use the butter, but I would really rather not spread pieces of your last meal on my yada yada yada...". _He decides to skip that step, as there is no one there to witness his hissy fit. Huffing a little, just for good measure, he reaches into the pantry for a packet of instant oatmeal, a flavour Anakin distastefully dubs "brown". Grinning a little, he pours some milk into the mix, and pops the bowl into the microwave for a few seconds.

With oatmeal in hand, Obi-Wan sits, no, drapes himself over the sofa in the common room, his head tucked into the corner against a plush pillow, one leg stretched out indecently over the rest of the cushions. Slurping up his oatmeal, he tries to relax. Today is his day out with Mace, and he'd better prepare himself to not be a tight-ass. Mace wouldn't have it. He enjoys going out with Mace, he always allows him to relax, have a good time a little more than most do, even Anakin, while still respecting his privacy. He hopes, however, that the night will end early, that he can get back to bed before the stroke of midnight, and life can move on until next year, when he will be thirty-

_Let's not go there._

He's so absorbed in thought and the steamy oatmeal that he doesn't notice Anakin slip in.

Anakin is twenty years, two-hundred and seventeen days, and fifteen hours old when he finally falls irredeemably in love.

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He isn't sure if it's the contrast of the furry soft white robe against that freckly, perfect skin, or maybe the half-awake look in his greyish, sparkly eyes, or the way his thin, but plush looking lips receive the spoonfuls of steaming oatmeal, sliding it into his mouth, and pulling out again, empty, licking the swell of the metal. He's pretty sure it has a lot to do with the way the auburn, but peppered hair sticks out in several directions from bed head and static electricity. Willing the door to shut, he clears his throat.

"Good morning, Obi-Wan!" he says, gleefully. "Happy Birthday!" Obi-Wan, startled, glances at Anakin, his eyes crinkling a little, and smiles.

"Good morning, Anakin. And no, not just yet," he sets his empty bowl on the low table in front of him, "The honor of being another year wiser doesn't happen until tomorrow morning."

"Another year of your heightened wisdom. Now that's something I don't think I can take," Anakin snorts, setting a small white sack on the table in the kitchen. "I brought you something," he says in a sing-song voice, pulling out a brown box with a small red and gold ribbon. Obi-Wan's eyes perk up a little as Anakin grins and moves to the couch. He hands Obi-Wan the box, hesitantly letting his fingertips linger on Obi-Wan's for an immeasurably short moment. Obi-Wan grins, fingering the ribbon.

"Oh ho ho, I know what this is," he says, opening it up to confirm his delight, "My yearly cheesecake."

Inside the box, resting on the embossed red tissue paper are four slices of positively sinfully rich raspberry chocolate cheesecake, complete with white chocolate shavings and curls over the top. He reaches out to Anakin with one arm for a friendly embrace. Anakin's heart jumps, and he all but falls on the sofa, nearly in Obi-Wan's lap, for the hug. He buries his face in the crook of Obi-Wan's bare shoulder.

"Mas...Obi-Wan, let's forget what I said yesterday...I had no excuse for that outburst," Anakin says, greedily taking in the sensations of the robe, the hair, the skin, all at once, before pushing himself up to stand again. "Forgive me," he whispers. Obi-Wan looks back with shining eyes and a smile.

"Already done," he says, "Will you put this in the refrigerator for me, Anakin? We can have our feast tomorrow."

"Why not tonight?" Anakin pouts, nonchalantly panicked, rearranging the contents of the shelves in the refrigerator to accommodate the box.

"I'm going out tonight with Mace for a few drinks, and then an early bedtime. Nothing fancy," he says, standing up and self consciously pulling the robe closer around his body. "You're invited, of course." Anakin shuts the refrigerator door and tosses the sack into the recycling bin.

"I was hoping we could have some time to ourselves," Anakin says, face flushing when he realizes what he's said. Obi-Wan cocks an eyebrow.

"We have plenty of time to ourselves, Anakin. Come, come have drink with us tonight, I promise I won't be embarrassing or "_masterly_" or anything. We haven't been out as friends in ages it seems," Obi-Wan says, making his way to his bedroom. Anakin's eyes follow him until his door shuts softly. "What do you say?" Obi-Wan shouts a little from the other side of the room.

"N..no, Master, I forgot that I had a previous engagement," Anakin says, dejectedly. There is silence for just a moment, before sighing loudly.

"As you wish, you're probably not missing too much, anyways," Obi-Wan lies. Anakin nods to himself and begins fiddling with the dishes in the sink.

_Oh, but _you _are, Obi-Wan._

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Obi-Wan Kenobi is thirty-five years, three-hundred and sixty-four days and nineteen hours old when he emerges from the refresher and a bone in his knee pops.  
"Fucker!" he blurts out, reaching down to grab his knee. At the same time, he hears the door buzz. Hobbling to the washroom door, he braces himself for a moment, sighing when the buzzer sounds twenty three more times in a forty second interval, finishing with a long _bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt. _

"Kenobi!" Mace shouts. Wincing as his leg throws him for a loop once more, he manages to sling a towel around all the right places.

"Anakin, will you let Mace in?" he bellows. "Anakin!" At the ensuing silence, he whines loudly, demanding attention.From the other side of the door, Mace chuckles.

"Come on, Obi-Wan! Hurry up, we have a _partay_ to attend!" Obi-Wan snorts.

"If I can make it there in one piece," he mumbles, alternately walking and limping theatrically to the door. Waving it open, Mace raises his eyebrows at Obi-Wan, much more naked than usual or expected.

"Are you going like that?" he asks.

"'_Are you going like that?'_ he says, ho ho," Obi-Wan mocks.

"What happened to you?" Mace asks as he watches Obi-Wan hobble to the washroom to dress.

"I got old, Mace,"

"Oh, is that implying you weren't already?" Obi-Wan pokes his head out from the washroom to glare at his old friend over the hum of the blow dryer. "Kidding, kidding! No, my friend, tonight you will not feel old, I guarantee. I credit-back guarantee that you will feel young and frisky."

"Frisky?" Obi-Wan questions over the water and the electric razor. Mace simply finds a seat on the sofa and grins. No, tonight Obi-Wan will forget about things like bald spots and knee cricks.

"Is Skywalker coming?"

"No, he didn't want to," Obi-Wan says through a washcloth as he washes his face off again.

"You aren't rubbing off on him, are you?"Obi-Wan snorts.

"_Hardly_. What do you mean by that, anyways?"

"Nothing, Obi-Wan. Get dressed already," says the older Jedi, as he reclines back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.

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Obi-Wan lets the towel fall to the floor, as he pulls a folded lump of clothes from his dresser, surprisingly in neither brown nor beige. It has been years since the fabric has slid over his body, probably since before Qui-Gon died, before Anakin. Back in his Padawan days. Unfolding the smooth, satiny pinstriped pants, he holds them up to his naked waist in the mirror, praying to the Force that those extra six pounds he gained won't matter in the long run. Exhaling, he bends over to pull them on, relishing in the luxuriant feel of the thin cotton over his thighs. And then they stop. He looks in the mirror at the pants, at how they stop an inch and a _half_ below his navel! Had they been so low-rise before? Had it mattered? Would he be able to bend over without showing off all his business? Suddenly, it felt lewd, to show a trail of belly hair, the very tip top of wispy auburn pubic hair. Surely there was no underwear available on the planet to wear with these. Closing the tab, he turned in the mirror, smoothing down his legs, making sure his backside was fairly covered. The navy fabric had a slimming effect on his hips, and he smiled appreciatively at how much taller, longer they made him look. Sashaying back over to the bed, he unfolds the matching sweater-tunic, a long red turtleneck number, dazzlingly tight, and falling just above the crotch of the low slung pants. He slides on his sepia boots, pulling the pants legs over the stalks, something he never does.

And somehow the finished product isn't nearly as disappointing as he imagined it would be.

He waves off the lights in his bedroom, and tentatively emerges to Mace, who is rambling through the fridge. He turns as he hears approaching footsteps and shuffling fabric. Obi-Wan stands before him, looking much more slender than before, vibrant and youthful, with a trimmed, neat beard and mustache, and slightly mussed hair.

"Now _that's_ what I'm talkin' 'bout," is all Mace says, smiling. Obi-Wan flushes a little, looking towards Anakin's bedroom door...wishing he had _his_ stamp of approval. _I wonder where he went..._

"Alright. Are we ready now?" Obi-Wan smiles, grabbing a small credit chip, and sliding it into his pocket. Mace nods and waves off the rest of the lights, both men making their way towards the hangar to Mace's red speeder.

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Obi-Wan Kenobi is thirty-five years, three-hundred and sixty-four days and twenty hours old when he remembers that there is _one_ pilot in the galaxy that he trusts even less than Anakin.

Mace has become a one man show in the pilot seat of the speeder, that is to say singing, dancing, all the while barely escaping near death through spaces that logistically are about three inches too tight for them to squeeze through.

However, there is something candid and amusing about watching the Senior Council member grooving genuinely to Coruscant's top forty radio.

"Okay, look, Dumpy-Wan. You're gonna have to loosen up if we're gonna do this," Mace says, demonstrating by sliding his shoulders to the beat. "Come on, do it with me, old timer." Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, grinning. Playing along, he moves his upper body in sync with Mace to the happy beat, feeling like the biggest fool in the galaxy.

"This is ridiculous, Mace."

"But you're having fun, right?" Mace asks, dodging a near collision as he unconsciously veers to the right.

_Or something, _Obi-Wan snorts, white-knuckled and latched to the hand bar on the side of the interior.

"You'll change your tune, soon, Kenobi," Mace says, pulling his speeder to the curb at Trœs. He hops off at the landing, and walks over to Obi-Wan's door, ever the gentleman, to help him out.

"You're too kind, Mace," he says, as Mace yanks him from his seat. Once out, Mace looks very seriously at him.

"Now, look. If at any point you aren't having fun, then let me know. I doubt you'll get bored," he smirks, "but in the case of the impossible...let me know. We're here for you tonight."

Obi-Wan suddenly has a _very_ bad feeling about this.

The two enter through the dark corridor, into the dim hallway. Already, Obi-Wan can feel the deep bass in the soles of his feet. On the walls hang small fluorescent hot pink lights, barely lighting their path. An older man intercepts them, holding a reservation book, ready with a datapen.

"Windu and Kenobi," Mace states plainly.

"Ah yes, follow me gentlemen." The extremely tall man leads them past the jovial, noisy bar, past the main dance floor full of well-dressed couples, to a hallway filled with more dim lights and frosted pink glass booths. He reaches forward and unlocks the two booths, side by side.

"And two, no three rounds of dark chocolate raspberry rum for us both, thanks." Mace winks a little at Obi-Wan before stepping inside the swanky little booth in the near darkness. "Happy birthday, _Master Kenobi._"

And he disappears behind the soundproof wall. Obi-Wan simply stands, disoriented and confused. Where is the bar? Where is the waiter? Where _are_ they? With little else to do, he furrows his brows and turns the latch on the door, stepping into his own identical booth. Inside is a plush, pink velvet lounge chair, a small table, and...

A stage?

Seating himself in the chair, he sinks nearly to the floor, and tries to get comfortable, finally ending up on his knees in the good-intentioned, though uncomfortable chair. Looking around, he takes in the disconcerting darkness, the two little pink lights, devoid of shadows. The little marble mechno-table sinks into the floor, and rises again with a little _whirr, _delivering his drink. Picking it up immediately, thankful for something to do with his hands, Obi-Wan stirs it a little, and takes delight in its smooth, fuzzy flavour.

"Thank you," he says to no one at all. There is a thud of bass, a click of a heel, and a sick feeling in his stomach. Looking up onto the stage, he realizes he isn't alone.

Suddenly there are bare breasts, writhing hips and pulsating music. Obi-Wan Kenobi stares up helplessly at the beautiful woman bucking against the pole in the six inch black patent leather stilettos.

_Oh, no.._.

Looking over at him, she smiles a little, pursing her unnaturally full, pink lips seductively, running a clawed hand over her breasts and down her stomach to pull the silver ring in her navel. She squats on the stage, rocking her hips while pulling at the strings on her tiny black bikini.

"Why don't you help me, mister?" she moans, rolling her hips again. Obi-Wan feels his face flush bright crimson in embarrassment, and wants to crawl inside himself. How could Mace do this! Take him to a strip club for his birthday? What ever could have made him decide this was a good idea? When he gives no response, she unsteadily moves down from the stage to dance in front of him, pulling her long white hair back. Taking matters into her own hands, the slender stripper pulls one of the strings loose on her lace bikini, and pries his hand to take care of the other one. Looking away, Obi-Wan wraps his finger around the loop, pulling the knot loose, and watches in horror as the panties fall to the floor. With her sharp heel, she tosses them away into a dark corner, smiling with satisfaction.

"You know, it's always a pleasure to meet a Jedi," she groans, lowering herself into his lap. Obi-Wan shirks back into the chair, feeling the unwelcome fragrant heat in his lap. Soon, she is grinding of her own accord, placing his hands on her soft hips, to the thudding music. The heat in his head is unbearable, as bile rises in his throat. This wasn't exactly the birthday gift he'd been hoping for! What was it Mace had said?

"_Now, look. If at any point you aren't having fun, then let me know."_

A light of hope enters his heart, and he catapults from the seat, setting the girl on the stage like one would pick up a dirty rag. Pounding on the glass, Obi-Wan screams at Mace.

"I'm not having fun, Mace! I want to go home!" he whines, sounding like a scared youngling.

"He can't hear you, darling. You might as well enjoy yourself." The stripper reaches around to cup at his groin, and he groans.

"No, please. Stop, you don't understand. I don't..." _like women_, he finishes in his head.

_Anakin, help! _

And in approximately five minutes, Anakin is there. His knight in shining armour.

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"Master," Anakin pants, turning one last corner to find Obi-Wan seated in the dark hallway on a lone, short stool. He barely hears Anakin over the thudding music and the cursing, unhappy stripper who is currently tying her panties back on. But Anakin doesn't notice any of that.

"What's the matter?" he says, breathless from his impromptu strip club rescue. Obi-Wan pushes his hair back with one hand.

"Well, for starters, I just punched a stripper," Obi-Wan says, closing his eyes, "and I can't just leave Mace behind." Anakin snorts.

"You _punched_ her? As in right in the kisser?" Obi-Wan groans, blushing profusely, a pounding headache immobilizing him.

"Well, she obviously wanted more than to strip for me. And I can't just leave, because...he brought me here, and he paid for it. It would be rude," Obi-Wan says, not quite understanding his own logic.

"Master, in case you haven't noticed," Anakin points to the booth with the two writing people silhouetted against the frosty glass, "Master Windu is busy. Come on, I'll take you home," Anakin says, offering his hand. Obi-Wan had never heard anything so welcoming in his life. Smiling a little, he takes the offered hand and rises to his feet, taking one last glance at the hallway, and turns on his heel to follow after Anakin.

The cool night air brushing against his face is a welcome reprieve from the heat inside the club, and Obi-Wan leans his head back against the black leather seats of his speeder as Anakin drives, surprisingly carefully, back to the Temple.

"So why did you want to leave, Master?" Anakin asks quietly.

"Because I hate that men create those sorts of institutions for women. It's degrading, and I've never liked them," _Oh, and I don't like women, _he smiles. Anakin nods a little. "I mean, what would you think if Padme did those sorts of things? Those women are wives and mothers, and somehow our society can't create any better jobs for them?" Anakin looks over at him thoughtfully for a moment, before turning his attention back towards not hitting things.

"Well, it is her life, and I guess if it's something she wants to do, then..." Obi-Wan looks atrociously at him.

"You mean you would allow your girlfriend to-"

"She isn't my girlfriend, Master," Anakin blurts. "Only a friend," he adds quietly. Obi-Wan's jaw drops, and he shakes his head.

"But I was sure that you-"

"Never."

"Are you sure you never-"

"Nope."

Silence takes over, and Obi-Wan leans to his left, one square inch of his head bracing against Anakin's shoulder.

"I'm tired. Push me away if you're uncomfortable," Obi-Wan says shakily, all of sudden moody and emotional. How could Anakin not be with Padme? Had he not bought her..._oils_? Perhaps they were for another woman, but who? Surely not Barriss, she was a little infatuated at one time, but not _that_ easy.

_I don't care anymore, I'm just so...tired._

Surprisingly, Anakin's arm left the steering bar and wound loosely around Obi-Wan's shoulder. Cracking one eye open at his former apprentice, he smiles sleepily.

"Are you alright, Master?"

"I am. I'm about to be even better, once I get into bed," he jokes. Anakin smiles broadly at his own private joke.

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Anakin opens the door to the dark apartment, slowly, and not turning on the lights. The darkness is probably more comfortable for what he plans to do. Obi-Wan follows him closely, sighing spiritlessly at his night gone awry. Anakin moves off to his bedroom, possibly to change. He listens half-interested, to the shuffling towards the back of the apartment. Perhaps Anakin is angry at him for calling him in the middle of the night to come pick him up.

"At least I have cake," Obi-Wan says softly, waving a dim light on in the corner. He is surprised when Anakin waltzes back into the kitchen, now wearing only loose, white drawstring sleep pants. Obi-Wan cocks his eyebrow a little.

"What are you doing?"

"Gettin' comfy," he grins, handing Obi-Wan a pair of sleep pants of his own, which will undoubtedly be too long.

"Anakin, did you not do the laundry?" Obi-Wan whines.

"No, I thought you said to take it tomorrow!"

"Well, it should be obvious, Anakin, that the laundry needs to go when the bin is full. Do I still need to hold your hand, _young one_?" Obi-Wan says, sarcastic and irritated. Anakin purses his lips, and reaches out to touch Obi-Wan's hand. He revels in the feel of the callouses, rubbing his thumb along the dip in his palm. Obi-Wan looks at him with question, his tired eyes not entirely sure what to think anymore.

"You can if you want to, Master," Anakin says, too frightened to meet his eyes.

Obi-Wan's heart jumps into his throat. There's clearly only one course of action here. He runs through thousands of outcomes and possibilities, overwhelmed and finally deciding that this is a chance worth taking.

He closes the gap between their hands, twining his fingers with Anakin's feeling the light hair on his knuckles, the sweat between his fingers.

"You were with me, weren't you? The other night?" Obi-Wan says, barely above a whisper in the darkness. He can almost hear Anakin nod. Insecurity floods him again and he sighs, shutting himself off.

"Embarrassing, isn't it, to have a Master who can't even..._get off_ anymore. I'm getting older, Anakin, and-" Anakin cuts him off, pulling Obi-Wan closer into his arms.

"I think you're magnificent," Anakin says, running his fingers up and down Obi-Wan's spine, nearly fainting from the feel of the tiny roundness of his belly, "Magnificent and hypnotic and sexual. And still so young." Anakin removes one hand from Obi-Wan's belly to wave in the air. "Happy Birthday, Obi-Wan." And sound fills the darkness. Reaching between them, Anakin takes Obi-Wan's hand, and begins swaying slowly, slightly, lazily.

"_Wise men say, only fools rush in, but I can't help falling in love with you_," he sings along with the quiet, sultry music. It's a slow burn, bodies caressing in haphazard time, with Anakin's breath on Obi-Wan's face, his voice off key, but tantalizing against his temple.

"_Shall I stay, would it be a sin? If I can't help falling in love with you._" Outside of the window, outside in a world that doesn't really matter to Jedi, to men, speeders rush by, flashing lights that illuminate and disappear against their bodies. Every now and then, one catches a glimpse of the other, Anakin's eyes barely open, looking through his long lashes at the shorter man. Slowly they make their way to Anakin's bedroom, arousal burning through gasps and sighs, as swaying becomes grinding, always achingly slow. Obi-Wan's moans complement Anakin's quiet, shaky singing as they fall into the bed.

"_Like a river flows, surely to the sea, darling so it goes, some things are meant to be-_"

"Anakin, what are we doing?" Obi-Wan whispers into Anakin's mouth as he is pressed into the bed. Anakin is incapable of singing any longer, and instead breathes into Obi-Wan's mouth, driving him mad. He slowly presses his lips onto Obi-Wan's finding comfort in the moist warmth of his mouth. He has waited a lifetime for this, to taste this man. Hesitantly, he plays with Obi-Wan's tongue, moaning when he grabs at his hips, grinding Anakin against himself.

"Look up, Obi..." Anakin says quietly. Obi-Wan looks at the ceiling, smiling broadly at the galaxy of glow in the dark stars. _So that's what he was doing_. Anakin buries his face in the crook of Obi-Wan's neck, kissing the skin there.

"I thought...under the stars would be good," Anakin says, tugging at Obi-Wan's sweater-tunic, and pulling it over his head with some difficulty. He looks intently at Obi-Wan's body, so different from his own. Covered in light patches of hair in all the right places, deliciously warm. He runs his hands over the skin, and can't help but thrust again him. Obi-Wan pulls him closer, light-headed from the sounds of Anakin's breathy moans and grunts, his warm breath rushing in his ear.

"I'm-ungh-I'm sorry, Master I..." Anakin apologizes incoherently, "It's like...you're so warm and we're together and-" with one last, delicious thrust, suddenly the space between them is hot and slick. Obi-Wan writhes a little, impossibly turned on. Anakin's breathing slows, and he looks from underneath his lashes at the older man.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-" Obi-Wan stops him with a kiss.

"You're twenty, Anakin. You'll be ready again in five minutes," he chuckles lightly. Anakin grins a little and kisses his collarbone.

"Well, you may be nearing forty, but I promise I'll make you feel like you're twenty-five again," Anakin suggests, ignoring the scowl on Obi-Wan's face as he utters the word _f-o-r-t-y_.

Obi-Wan shifts a little in the bed, sliding his pants down over his hips, tangling the both of them in the sheets under the stars.

"I already do, Anakin."

Obi-Wan Kenobi is thirty six years old.

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	5. Epilogue

**How Kenobi Got His Groove Back:Alchemy Dream**

**A/N: **I know you can't have an epilogue without a prologue, but what can I say. I'm avant garde.

**Warning: **Slash, fluff. Yeah, I said it.

**Summary: **All it took was a light-hearted quip from Mace Windu to send Obi-Wan Kenobi off the edge and into insecurity. Anakin is fed up with his ex-master's age-related blubbering and is determined to show him exactly how beautiful he is.

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Epilogue

Obi-Wan Kenobi is thirty-six years and seven hours old when he wakes up to Anakin's light snoring, imagining there is no better way to wake up. Looking at the boy through sleepy eyes, he's alight with the sun rays that creep in from the cracks in the curtains, as if the light comes from inside him. As if he's the center of the universe.

And Anakin is all his.

He feels warm and comfortable, especially in the areas which their bodies are directly connected. And there are few that aren't. He brushes his feet against Anakin's, running his heel along his lightly hairy leg against the cool sheets that still smell like 'fresh laundry'. It amazes him how much heat Anakin generates, like snuggling up to a big, drooling puppy.

His eyes finally adjust to the light, and hesitantly, he pushes himself up from the bed to go do the breakfast thing. He pulls on Anakin's discarded sleep pants, yanking them up to his waist to prevent walking on the legs, and begins rummaging through the refrigerator. Maybe eggs, or bacon, or eggs bacon and toast, or pancakes and-

"Oh, my-" he says, his eyes widening in delight.

Or chocolate raspberry cheesecake.

Pulling out a fork, he opens the little brown box and begins hammering into a slice, having to keep from moaning at the richness of the chocolate.

"Master?" Anakin says, stretching with a long quilt wrapped around his shoulders, as he pads into the kitchen, missing the Obi-Warmth. He smiles at the older man wearing his pants that are practically falling off of him, at the way the light touches the long tuft of hair that he habitually pushes behind his ears, curling underneath the delicate lobe. And the freckles. Oh,_ Force_ the freckles on his back and shoulder blades. Obi-Wan looks at him, like a deer in the headlights.

"You've caught me, Anakin," he says through a mouthful of cheesecake, holding his fork up in surrender.

"Actually, it sounded pretty good to me, too," Anakin smiles, walking over to the cupboard. He pours two frosty glasses of milk, and picks up the box with the other hand, leaving Obi-Wan in the kitchen.

He quickly follows, waving his fork at Anakin.

"Now _wait_, that's my cheesecake, let me have it!" he whines, and Anakin laughs.

"Well come get it! I want breakfast in bed."

"Sounds good to me. Not only am I eating cheesecake for breakfast in _bed_, but I'm also skipping the council meeting this morning." Anakin mock-gasps, shoving a forkful of cake into his mouth.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi, you _rebel_."

"You know it," Obi-Wan says, scooting under the blankets and closer to Anakin. They share the box in silence until Obi-Wan speaks.

"You know, we are going to have to discuss this sooner or later."

"Why?" Anakin asks, muffled, as he gulps down the milk.

"Because, you see we didn't discuss the whole..._you know,_" he says, referring to Anakin's participation in Obi-Wan's masturbation the other night.

"Ahhh...yes, but you see it worked itself out, Master. You came three times last night before we finally passed out, once under two minutes!" Anakin says cheekily, licking his fork. Obi-Wan blushes and groans.

"Really, you were _timing me_?"

"What I'm trying to say, is let things work themselves out a little, Obi-Wan. Doesn't this feel right?" Anakin says, nuzzling against him for emphasis. He looks down on Obi-Wan's crown, at the still reddish, beautiful hair that catches glints of sunlight, even making the few grey hairs look silvery and beautiful. He imagines for a moment how beautiful Obi-Wan's hair will look when it turns completely silver. And he grins, deciding that when that day comes, when they're both full of grey hair, he will _still_ be making love to this man all night. But that is in the far off future. Obi-Wan is only thirty-six. Anakin is only twenty. It isn't an age gap, just a completion of sorts. Obi-Wan lays back, pressing his head into the crevice of Anakin's underarm. He smiles as he takes a bite.

"It's all very new, you know?" he says very quietly.

"But it's _right_."

"Well, more or less," Obi-Wan says, smirking, remembering his 'birthday gift'. "I'm still a little sore, you know?" Anakin chuckles, putting the box and the glasses aside onto the floor. He pulls the quilts up over their heads as they wrap around each other. Planting a soft kiss to his cheek, and nipping at Obi-Wan's ear, he licks the inside a little before moaning a little.

"Yes, but at least it isn't from your_ joint pain_, or your _bad back_ or your _neck cramps_." Obi-Wan smirks a little against his lips, always feeling a little bit younger in Anakin's arms. Because he isn't really old at all. Age is a state of mind, after all.

"Yes, there _is_ that, isn't there..."

_I love you, Anakin._

_I love you too, old timer._

And that's how Kenobi got his groove back.

The End.

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End file.
